A Pocket Full Of Hope

I’ve never thought of myself as extra ordinary.  Like many born into a family of poverty, I desired more than I’d been shown in my life.

In my family the acme of success was my uncle who’d been hired by the state as a janitor in my grade school.  The job came with benefits, union wages, and security.  He helped two of his brothers get jobs as well – one of the rare times I’d seen the slow moving man smile.

When people discover I’ve been in prison more than thirty-two years on a ninety year non-homicide sentence – I was seventeen years old at the time – they assume I made some bad decisions.  I point out people’s moves in life can only be judged by their options at the time, and their eyes climb their foreheads in shock, as if to say, “Surely, you had better options than to shoot someone!”

On a rare occasion, I’ll see a head tilt to the side, a body’s way of reflecting the brain’s strenuous attempt to see an issue, the world, me? from a different angle.

Sadly, if there is one thing visible in me, it’s my anger.  Most people who live in a cage as long as I have come to a place where, for the sake of sanity, a balance has to be struck that allows reason.  I’ve always rejected it, that tipping point between the retention of hope, the most valuable of things seen and unseen, on one side and the slow carving off of pieces of myself as I sit on the opposite scale.  

Some give chunks of their souls away in an attempt to boost the economy.  The more you have, the more you spend, right, hoping it may come back around…  Call it karma, or simply planting different seeds in the hope of just a little rain, the effort and sacrifice no less noble because of its desperation or timing.  Outside of either, few will lay so much of themselves on the alter for another.

Some toss pieces of self on the fiery blaze of their rage, seeking to stave off the icy bleakness of reality through violence, drugs, and homosexuality, anything to dodge being deprived of human touch and love, the ever thirsty phantoms of hope.

So, my little cousin paroled today with tears in his eyes and a very detailed business plan that I helped him with.  I’ve studied for more than fifteen years now, connecting dots of knowledge to create plans that I may never touch myself.  I pray I have done all I can to teach him how to do the same for himself.   We fought three times before I had his attention, each blow given and received costing me another piece of myself.

I sent him back to a family of poverty, the same one that once set my options before me, but this kid had all the hope that I could give in his pocket.  Don’t worry.  I’ll find more somewhere…  After all, what are any of us worth without it? 

ABOUT THE WRITER. When a gifted writer submits their work to WITS, it is the fuel that keeps this going. Writing that shares the human heart is what we look for, which is exactly what Mr. Jones shared with us. Mr. Jones has served 32 years for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old. He can be contacted at:
DeLaine Jones #7623482
777 Stanton Blvd.
Ontario, OR 97914

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“I Regret Even Knowin’ ‘Em”

I am change in progress, striving not so much to be rid of my adverse circumstances, but to die a better person than I lived, and the last twenty years have taught me a lot.  It wasn’t long ago I faced my greatest fear and stepped onto the set of a live production of Reginald Rose’s ‘Twelve Angry Men’ to perform before a swell of doubtful prison administrators.  Just this year, I made a goal to start a college fund for grandchildren I’ve yet to meet.  And probably the most life-changing thing I’ve done is fully accept myself and taken accountability for the wrongs I’ve done in my life.   

My wrongs aren’t what landed me on Death Row though.  A verdict doesn’t change the truth.  I wasn’t in the Pizza Inn the night its manager got shot and killed, and for over two decades I’ve wondered why my cousin would testify I told him I did.  I knew he must have a good reason.  Fear, maybe, is one thing I came up with, fear of what the system might do to him if he told the truth, whatever that might be.   Since my trial, I have learned his dreadlocks were at the scene of the crime.  The jury never heard that.  Maybe I wouldn’t be here if they had.  Maybe he thought we’d have to trade places if he told whatever he really knows.  At least that’s what I told myself for twenty years. 

That was before I saw what he told an investigator who sought him out in an attempt to help me.  Jesse Hill made it clear he was only interested in keeping me right here. 

Far from helping me, my cousin implicated another member of my family as a possible accomplice to the crime, and time and again brought my mother into the conversation, “His momma know he did it.  She know how that boy is.”  “My aunt did this.”  “My aunt should have gave it to you,” when asked his middle name.  “Why does my aunt keep doing this shit.”  “She need to talk to her son.  He done what he did and bragged about it.”

Hill blamed the bad blood between us on me choosing to confess to him – but the truth is, I never did that, because the truth is – I had nothing to confess.  I never saw Jesse Hill that night, and I never confessed to him that night.  Jesse Hill and Ronald Bullock both know that.  Truth doesn’t change. 

For all Hill’s fierce condemnation of me, it was a bizarre contradiction when he wanted it on record that his feelings had been hurt.  “That’s my family, it hurt me even to go in there.  I ain’t see you wrote that down.” I guess he didn’t see the irony in what he was saying.

As much as my cousin wanted to be portrayed as hurt by our familial bonds and clamored for sympathy, his defamation of my character was limitless, his agenda clear.  “I know he did it.” 

When I was a kid, I looked up to my cousin.  I looked up to him when I was a man too, and for over twenty years, I wondered ‘why?’   I still don’t know ‘why’, but it cleared up a lot when my cousin told the interviewer, “I regret even knowin’ ‘em.”

It used to be that the most meaningful word I knew was ‘family’.  The term denoted loyalty, safety, honor and trust.  It was the highest respect one could pay another.  But when a person you once admired says they regret knowing you… what’s left to say?  We aren’t family – just people who share an insignificant past.  Jesse Hill contends his version of the events on May 16, 1999, are true.  I maintain he is a liar.  Those who really know who I am – know the truth.  And my truth says a lot more about Jesse Hill than he could ever say about me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

NOTE TO READER. Please contact kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson in Wilson, NC, any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day and night. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful.
Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/

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Hope Is My Story

My name in high school was Rod T. Bridges.  My buddies and I were frequently bored, living in our small East Idaho town, but it was the ‘70’s.  We had our own little gang with our own little pseudonyms.  Gas was cheap and our cars were fast.  We had one stoplight and a decent movie theatre until the local proprietor burned it to the ground and collected the insurance money – or so the story went. 

We grew up Mormon, but we still had our wild streaks.  We discovered beer and girls just like every other red-blooded American boy.  We shot at road signs and broke a few hearts, but we were mostly naïve.  Our gang of six are all now pushing sixty, at least those of us who are left.  Rick (Dicky P.) shot himself after two failed marriages.  Danny (Lanny S.) hung himself, battling homosexual demons.

Muggy just retired from thirty years of FBI service.  Lance (Vance C.) put in thirty years at the D.O.E.  David (Dana Z.) spent thirty years flying tandem paragliders in Aspen.  And I, Rod T., am nineteen years into a life sentence for premeditated murder.

Nobody could have predicted our fates.  We went our separate ways after high school.   I had to see the world and started to as a missionary in Japan.  I guess the promise of small town stability with my high-school sweetheart just didn’t appeal to me.  She married pick #2, and they are still together.  Go figure.

Too bad I can’t go back and marry Laurie.  But here I am.  Prison has taught me a lot about myself I probably wouldn’t have learned any other place.  Circumstances can make or break a person.  I’ve chosen to befriend my situation.  My incarceration has had its ups and downs, but I’m stable now.  I have a job, a newfound faith in Christ, and a stringent exercise routine – my life is a balance of these three elements.

I’ve been compelled to share my story of my lifelong struggle with obesity.  I continue to blame the ‘fat gene’, whether it exists or not.   I had to hit rock bottom mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually before finally overpowering my demon. But here’s the thing – it never ends. The demon may lie dormant for a spell, we might temporarily subdue the dragon by sheer force of will.  These battles can be won, but the war continues.  We must be ever vigilant.

I lost a monumental 114 pounds over the course of fifteen months while trapped in a 6’x9’ cell.  It happened accidentally and on purpose. I marvel still at the change which took place within me.  I still have the excess skin to serve as a reminder.  I still shudder with fear when my weight starts to creep upward.  But I overcame.  I am overcoming.  And I will continue to overcome.

Hope is my story.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Mr. Briggs wrote in to a writing contest not long ago, and what was apparent from that submission was the honesty and vulnerability in his writing. He has since shared with us a book project he is working on. The above piece is the introduction to that book, and I hope we get to share the final product when it is complete. Mr. Briggs can be contacted at:

Todd R. Briggs #66972
Idaho State Correctional Center, G Block
P.O. Box 70010
Boise, Idaho 83707

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Potholes

I wish there was a positive way to clear people’s distorted perceptions – without making enemies of them.  I wish there was a way people could realize their own flaws and laugh at them, while inspiring change.   Some roads just are bumpier than others, and some of us keep hitting the same bump over and over.  And then, sometimes, we adjust our actions to prevent us from being on that same road and hitting that same bump – no job, no home, divorce, prison, whatever the personal ‘pothole’ seems to be. 

I’m doing the best I can, given the circumstances.  I’m a ‘master handler’ in the Prison Trained Canine Companion Program.  I just completed an Entrepreneurial Operations course and got accepted to Phi Theta Kappa Honor Society.   

Often the advice given is that which is best taken, and I’m following my best advice.  I’m becoming who I want to be. 

ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Kenyon is a first time writer here, and I’m very glad he has joined us. I hope we hear more from him, and I hope we get to hear more regarding the positive impact of the canine program he is a part of. Joshua Kenyon can be contacted at:
Joshua Kenyon #150069
21000 Hwy 350 E
Model, CO 81059

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Why Does Justice Pass Me By?

I was sixteen years old when I came to prison, and now I am forty.  I was sentenced to two hundred forty one years for robbing a group of people while I was a teenager. 

I still believe in justice.  I read about it.  I see wealthy people and those who have family connections get it.  It just doesn’t apply to all of us in here.  Some of us haven’t experienced it.  She eludes us, this justice.  The statue of the Lady of Justice furnished in the courtrooms is blindfolded… How is it then, that her scales are tipped for us?

Do we ever deserve a second chance? 

“Bobby Bostic, you will die in the department of corrections.  You do not go to see the parole board until 2201, nobody in this courtroom will be alive in the year 2201.”
– Judge Evelyn Baker

ABOUT THE WRITER. Bobby Bostic was sentenced to die in prison for a crime commited when he was 16 years old. His co-defendant and the leader of the two was an adult and received thirty years. At sixteen years old, in a crime where no one was seriously injured – Bostic was given essentially – a death sentence. Mr. Bostic spends his time writing books and educating himself. If you would like to show your belief that his sentence is unjust, you can sign his petition here.

You can contact Mr. Bostic at:
Bobby Bostic #526795
Jefferson City Correctional Center
8200 No More Victims Road
Jefferson City, MO 65101

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Transience

A few years ago here on Death Row, a handful of men were summoned to our unit manager’s office. They didn’t return for weeks.   Prison administrators accused the men of plotting… something that was never explained.  All we knew was that the guys, our friends, were put in segregation while being ‘investigated’.  They returned a couple weeks later after nothing turned up, a few pounds lighter physically and also in terms of their property.

Putting a prisoner ‘under investigation’ is the prison’s way of segregating him without charging him,  without writing him up for an infraction, without due process.  It’s a way to punish in advance while searching for a legitimate reason to justify a formal write-up.  It’s a discretionary tool administered in response to rumors or suspicion of a rule violation, vengeance, say, for pissing off a duty lieutenant.

Prisons are highly structured, highly controlled environments, governed by routine, every day much the same as the food – bland, monotonous, repetitive.   You’d think being permanently imprisoned would mean where a person lays their head would be set in stone, right?  Despite control mechanisms shaping nearly every facet of daily life, being incarcerated means shit can happen at any second.  No one can be sure where they will sleep at night – their current cell, bandaged on a hospital bed, shivering in a psyche ward, handcuffed in a holding tank, waiting for a cell assignment in solitary.  And anytime someone is forced to move off the unit, their personal  property is searched and held to the strictest standard.  Extra anything equals contraband. 

Every time we get sent to the hole, we lose our personal property.  Our jailers, tasked with packing our belongings for these moves, say much of our property is ‘contraband’ because it ‘exceeds space limitations’.

Right before I came here in ’06, someone wrote an anonymous note on one of the guys already here.  The staff despised him, and he was accused of bullying the men on his pod.  Though no one ever came forward with evidence or testimony to substantiate this claim, he was placed ‘under investigation’ and didn’t return for years. 

Once you are in solitary confinement, if you violate even the most trivial policy – having an extra pair of socks, things that typically go ignored or at worst elicit a verbal warning – you earn additional write-ups.  Fifteen days.  Thirty days.  Forty-five days.  Days pile onto your stay.  Receiving a series of write-ups in quick succession can get you recommended for long-term isolation, a minimum of six months but usually at least a year.

Another time, while awaiting my trial, officers raided the cell next to mine. Through an interconnected air vent, I heard the officers informing the irate and disbelieving occupant that they had to take all of his property, including the clothes he had on, because he was being put on suicide watch.  I never found out whom he’d offended, but somebody – a prisoner or staff member – had filled out a sick-call in his name, posing as him and threatening to kill himself.  He was forcefully stripped naked and dragged to an observation cell on the psych ward, where he spent the next two weeks.

Incarcerated people accumulate a ton of attachments, possessions, sentiments, activities, etc. We latch onto them, make them a part of us, become dependent on them.  They make us heavy.  For that reason, many guys in here walk around high-strung and hyper vigilant about their interaction with staff, “Man, I won’t even speak to that officer.  He’s too spiteful.  I don’t want him searching my cell – I’ve got too many books.”  Or photos.  Or art supplies.  Or food.   Any time I’m called to the office for an appointment or to pick up legal mail, my heart races.  I question whether I’ve pissed off anyone, I wonder if I’ll return.

Before officers enter our area to search cells or arrest someone, they stop in the hall at the guard booth and start putting on blue latex gloves like nurses wear.  We watch through the Plexiglas wall. Someone will holler, “MAN DOWN!” and during the fifteen seconds prior to the guards’ entrance, we ask ourselves, “Who are they coming to get?  Did they glance up at my cell?”

Several toilets will flush, swallowing…. whatever.  Most of us prop ourselves in doorways,  or continue what we were doing in the dayroom, watching but not watching TV, playing but not playing chess, stiff but nonchalant, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves in case the guards are undecided about who they are coming for.

Some guys are sentimental hoarders, their cells thick with excesses of everything.   Others keep nothing.  Other than a cup, toothbrush, toothpaste, bar of soap, and neatly made bunk, their cells hardly look occupied.  They give the guards nothing to hurt them with, no leverage.  They’re nearly invisible and are impervious to prison life.    

Incarceration has a transient quality, akin to homelessness, forcing us to continually determine which of our possessions are extra baggage.  And, how do I avoid the unavoidable and unpredictable?   I don’t.  I simply prepare for it. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and is undeniably talented. Not only does Mr. Wilkerson sometimes share his writing with us, he was also a contributor to Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

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